


A House Divided Cannot Stand

by reinadefuego



Category: NCIS
Genre: Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Post Season/Series 08, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24608548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reinadefuego/pseuds/reinadefuego
Summary: There was no rational fear, no reason for these terrors that Trent was consciously aware of. That knowledge, unfortunately, had little effect.Written for challenge 125 - "trigger" at ncis_drabble.
Relationships: Jethro Gibbs & Trent Kort
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	A House Divided Cannot Stand

Some nights, he'd wake up to sheets soaked with sweat, his body shaking uncontrollably. There was no rational fear, no reason for these terrors that Trent was consciously aware of.

After all, both Jonas Cobb and Marcin Jerek were dead. And as far as the CIA were aware, he was too.

That knowledge, unfortunately, had little effect on the subconscious parts of his brain. Nor the dark corners of his mind where failure still held sway and a knife continued to plunge into his skull.

Other nights, there was no need for him to fall asleep at all. The past would creep up on him like a shadow and seize him by the throat. It was always started by a small incident, something just casual enough to catch him off-guard and hurl him into the deepest recesses of his memory.

Tonight, it began with nothing more than the falling of an uneven shelf and the subsequent smashing of empty mason jars. His mind translated the noise to windows breaking. Then the memories came crashing down in waves, plunged Trent into the past and a struggle to survive. Jonas Cobb bursting in and cutting his eye out. Ray Cruz, gloves on and silenced Glock in hand, ready to kill him at the heirarchy's behest.

Both times, he wound up bloody and injured, unable to go to a hospital, lacking any reasonable explanation for his current state. Both times, Trent could only lick his wounds, fix his aging, broken body with superglue and pull himself to his feet again.

So why the hell was this any different?

His fist was tight around the handle of the carving knife, straightened arms trembling. The opposite side of the kitchen floor was covered in shards of glass, and the dustpan was well within reach. Every part of his body willed his legs to move, demanded he walk the two feet to the cupboard under the sink, yet nothing happened. The roast beef on the chopping board was going cold while he stood there, unmoving, like one of those wax statues at Madame Tussaud's.

"Kort?"

That voice was enough to bring him out of his head, caused him to realise just how fast his heart was pounding. Still, his muscles refused to function. It was all Trent could do to look up and see Gibbs standing in the kitchen doorway, broom in hand.

"I said I'd fix that shelf," Jethro sighed. The shock in Kort's eyes was unmistakable. "Might want to start writing out a list. Seems like the whole house is falling apart."

"So am I." Trent swallowed, managed to loosen his grip on the knife. It dropped onto the benchtop with a thud and the blade landed precariously close to his fingers. "Gibbs?"

"Yeah?"

Kort needed to do more than just lick his wounds, needed something better than superglue or duct tape. He couldn't keep doing this to himself, or to Gibbs for that matter. "That therapist you mentioned. Do they have a name?"


End file.
